Night Storm
Around the eaves a soul unchristened,
A perished child, complains—
The Gabble-ratchet, said my mother,
(Her Yorkshire people told each other)
Lost in the weeping rains.
Like me they must have lain and listened
Since there were window-panes.
A perished child, complains—
The Gabble-ratchet, said my mother,
(Her Yorkshire people told each other)
Lost in the weeping rains.
Like me they must have lain and listened
Since there were window-panes.
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